


Conduct Unbecoming

by thrillhaus



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, Bounty Hunting, But it's not safe to give him one, Don't touch Phasma without permission, F/M, Gen, Hux is Not Nice, Phasma is not nice either, don't go into an enclosed space with either of these two, general space scamming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 16:01:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15146699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrillhaus/pseuds/thrillhaus
Summary: Phasma can take care of herself in any situation, in or outside the First Order. But the kind of self-care she wants is easier with a few credits in her pocket... and she's got access to the galaxy's most wanted man. Who could pass up the bounty on General Genocide?It seems like the stars are aligning for Phasma. But her prey has designs of his own.(This is an alternate story branch for Disorderly Conduct -- it begins after the events of Chapter Seven.)





	1. Chapter 1

The rumors of the Supreme Leader’s madness have penetrated even down to medbay. Kylo Ren is a murderer. A religious fanatic. Some of the crew--some of the  _ officers-- _ have turned against their leaders and joined him in his dark rituals. He’s selecting people to live and die based on the whims of his made-up force.

At first, Phasma dismisses these rumors as gossip, spread among bored doctors and nurses and malingerers who want to extend their stay in medbay past what a mild case of Crait virus deserves. Kylo Ren has strange powers, yes, but Phasma can’t quite see him as powerful. Her mother used to tell her stories about witches who could call wind and lightning from their hands, and she thinks of Ren in the same way. He may be able to smash machinery and manipulate minds, but she doesn’t think that he can overcome the collective, day-to-day power of the men and machinery of the First Order.

However, when the pieces of bodies start coming in, all neatly cauterized, Phasma changes her mind. It’s time to accelerate her plans to leave. Something awful is going to happen again, and soon.  _ Don’t press your luck _ .

There’s a nurse in medbay that Phasma wants to take with her, but she remembers another story from her childhood on her blasted planet, the story her father told so many times, the one about the woman and the tower. 

_ Back when the world was green _ \--every story had started that way-- _ there had been a great tower, so high that it struck the clouds. Thousands of people had lived in it, and food grew from the ceilings and water dripped out of the walls. It was paradise, but the people were greedy and were struck down by a great fire for their wickedness. _

_ Two sisters had lived in the tower, slaves of a cruel master who owned ten thousand jewels. They loved each other more than anything else in the world. Then one day, the great catastrophe struck, and flame covered the earth. One of the sisters had been sent outside the tower with her basket, and she had time to save only one thing from the tower. _

The woman had run back, but she didn’t save the jewels, and she didn’t save her sister, even though they loved each other so much. 

“Kalla carried her master out in the basket,” Phasma’s father intoned, “because she knew that without him, man would have perished from the earth.”

Kalla was the mother of the clan. Kalla was wise. Kalla was sacrificial. Deep down, Phasma hated Kalla’s virtue--her sister! all those jewels!-but the point stood. 

You didn’t save the things you loved, but the things that were most important for survival. 

Of course, things are more sophisticated than back when the earth was green, and the thing that’s most important for survival now is a stash of credits, not a man. Still, certain men  _ are _ more valuable than others.

Phasma figures that if she takes one most-wanted man with her on her journey, she’ll stand to catch a bounty that even the legendary Kalla wouldn’t turn her nose up at.

That’s how she finds herself dragging a drowsy Armitage Hux down the "mental reformation" halls by the hand.

“Where are we going?” 

“We have to get out of here. They’re evacuating the ship,” Phasma lies.

“An evacuation? There can’t have been another attack.” Hux yawns. He sounds sure of himself, despite being half asleep and presumably half drugged. 

It’s not until they get into the medbay proper that they hear the klaxons.

Phasma is shocked. It’s almost as if by breaking Hux out of his room, she’s caused the ship to fall apart all by itself. A real emergency is happening; troopers are running around the halls in disorganized groups, officers are barking orders to attempt to get them into formation. Nobody seems to know exactly what’s going on, but it’s something, and it’s bad. An attack, from the terrorists? Or from Ren?

Either way, there’s no way out except leaving.  _ I almost left this too late. I’ll have to abandon ship with everybody else getting in my way. Fuck.  _ She clamps down on Hux’s hand like she wants to pull off his arm, in case he panics and tries to run away, or to take command.

Fortunately, Hux remains content to comment on their situation. “The alarms don’t go off in half the medbay? That has to be fixed,” he hisses, spitting out his anger at dysfunctional contractors and the laggards at Kuat as they rush to a hangar. There’s no way Phasma’s getting into an escape pod, and it’s not hard to get Hux onto a shuttle. He seems to accept the copilot’s chair as his due.

Naturally, other people are reacting to what Phasma sensed first. Escape pods are popping out of the Finalizer like seeds from a ripe swellflower. The pods’ propulsion systems mean that they’re momentarily quicker than the shuttle, streaking across the bow and keeping her running slow to avoid collisions. The last thing she needs is to be dead in the ether.

Phasma spares a quick look at her passenger. He’s starting to look a bit uncertain, staring down through the keel windows. His mouth twists, and Phasma guesses that he needs to throw up before she also notices what’s right underneath her.

The Star Destroyer  _ Bellator _ , cannons locked and loaded--and pointed in their direction.

Phasma guns it, just in time to feel the floor of the bridge rattle beneath her feet.  _ Concussive force, keep going, it’ll hold up fine.  _ She pulls sharply upwards, sees the white blob of a pod, pulls sharply left to avoid it, and then it’s up, and up, and up until the rattling stops. 

She pulls the overworked shuttle level and lets it coast.

_ A close escape, once again.  _ She’s certainly pulled off narrower ones, but there’s always something to handle next. 

In this case, it’s Hux, who is sprawled against the panes, seemingly stunned. _ If he was thrown from the seat, if he’s badly hurt…  _

Phasma readies herself for injury protocol, but Hux is fine. He’s just shocked by what he sees.

An explosion is blossoming from the side of the  _ Finalizer,  _ consuming countless escape pods in its wake. Fighters are swarming around the ship, and a healthy-sized TIE-on-TIE dogfight is taking place. It’s bizarre to see all this machinery turned against itself, the First Order tearing itsself apart. Maybe a Canto Bight dealer would enjoy the spectacle. Phasma just counts herself lucky to not be in the middle of it. 

“I don’t understand,” Hux says. “Damn him, what has Ren done?” 

Phasma understands enough. “We have to get out of here.”

Hux pulls himself back into the copilot’s chair. He’s naturally extremely skinny, Phasma realizes. She had somehow gotten it into her head that he had only looked that way because he was in a sickroom, and that once he was out he would somehow revert to the broad-shouldered general in uniform. She wonders if he can see his reflection in the windows.

“I order you to turn this ship around!” He points at her, of all things, and Phasma can see the sweat stain under his armpit.

“With permission, sir, this ship is designed to fly under protection. We don’t have the defenses or the guns to head into that sort of fight.” 

“This is dereliction of duty!” Hux has the sheer gall to reach over and hit the side of her chair with his palm. 

“It would be suicide.” Phasma grabs his thin white arm and thinks about breaking it like a twig. 

_ Remember. Precious cargo. _

“I want us to stay alive.” She modulates her tone, remembers that he can see her face. No snarls. “You need to stay alive. Sir.”

She expects him to argue back--hadn’t he wanted her to put him out of his misery, just a few days before?--but his stance softens. He’s tiring out.

“You don’t look well, General. Requesting permission to take over flight duties.” 

Hux answers with a yawn into his sleeve. He’s probably been running on adrenaline for some time now. Any emotional response to the carnage he’s just seen is sinking underneath his need to return to sleep. 

Phasma gets a curt nod in return. “Permission granted, Captain.” 

“There are bunks outside the cockpit to the left,” Phasma suggests. 

Hux pushes himself up, hands splayed against the console, and staggers off. Phasma hears door to the berth creak open and shut, and checks the instruments to reset anything that Hux may have accidentally turned or pushed when he got up.  _ Clumsy _ . He was never much of a pilot on his own. Which helps in the current situation, but Phasma is still slightly embarrassed for him.

After Hux leaves, Phasma turns on the monitors to track his movements. She feels a rush of relief when she sees him curled up in a bunk. There’s an officer’s berth right next to the cockpit, but it locks from the inside. The bunks, on the other hand, can be locked by a commanding officer. 

Hux doesn’t know this. He’s spent most of his time with the First Order overseeing projects and walking his bridge. He doesn’t know these smaller shuttles like Phasma does, like she knows her own arms and legs and teeth.

This doesn’t mean that Phasma would have chosen this craft if she’d had other options. This shuttle’s primary purpose is to transport troops from space into atmo. Most of its advantages are useless for the kind of space-hopping mission she wants to run now. This model  _ has _ been upgraded with some light weapons, which is fortunate. 

What’s unfortunate is that someone has been at this shuttle before her. The standard medikits are missing all the the drugs that could even be  _ considered _ for recreational use. Phasma is disgusted, partly because this pilfering possibly indicates a blind spot in her past methods of discipline, partly because she had counted on having a good-sized stash of sedatives to further her plans

_ Bacta-snorting asses. If I was still there, I’d have every one of them reconditioned. _

But she’s not still there, and given what just occurred on the Finalizer, the troopers who purloined her medikits are probably ashes and spacefreeze. Which is a fitting end for them, but it doesn’t make taking care of her cargo any easier. He’ll be perfectly alert the entire way to the dropoff point.

Phasma stops looking among the medkits and starts looking for a piece of good, strong rope.

She’ll just have to work out this delivery the hard way.


	2. Chapter 2

Armitage Hux has never been particularly interested in any of the superstitions that thrive among the uneducated of the galaxy, or in any of those superstitions’ particular views about the afterlife or afterlives. He is, however, intimately acquainted with the concept of punishment.

So when he wakes up cold and alone, something in his mind reaches back to a nasty legend from a primitive race. 

_ I’ve died and gone to Cala hell. _

The air is freezing; his mattress is hard and thin; the blanket is rough, and as thin as the mattress. He rouses himself long enough to pull some extra covers off the bunks beside him, then resettles into his original bed, taking care not to let his back touch the chlll metal wall.

He’s in trooper bunks, he realizes that much, having overseen such arrangements many a time, even if he hasn’t experienced the accommodations firsthand. Tucked away like a common soldier. The pattern of his life up to this point leads him to expect somebody or something to rouse him soon--a prefect, an alarm, a nurse--but no one comes and nothing rings or blares or beeps.  _ I’m by myself, all alone _ .  _ No commander, no commanded. _

He’s utterly unfamiliar with this sort of situation.  _ What will I do? _

To calm himself, he recollects the events of the last few hours, which are in comparison easy to understand. He’s on a shuttle. The  _ Finalizer  _ must be gone. Complete chaos, no sort of controlled evacuation at all. It wouldn’t have happened under  _ his _ command. His poor ship, he remembers his last moments on it… and no warning! If it hadn’t been for Phasma, he would have  _ died _ . 

Hux remembers that he’s not alone. Captain Phasma is with him.  _ Serving _ under him. She had heard about what was happening and she had done her duty by him.

Hux’s breathing slows, and he takes his finger out of his mouth. He’s bitten it rather hard, he can taste iron. Pathetic habit. 

_ Why in the galaxies  _ did _ Phasma come back for  _ you _?  _

The most likely explanation is that Phasma is the consummate soldier; she knows her place, and her place is at her superior officer’s side. They’ve worked that way for long enough that obedience has become second nature. In the face of danger, she automatically moved to protect him.

The other explanation is that Phasma values him as a person. There’s evidence for this as well: she tended to him when he was unhappy, bringing him pleasant things to eat and drink. She tried to help him to outwit Ren. It wasn’t her fault that she wasn’t enough to outwit him--the man is a monster, a beast that Snoke had somehow seen fit to let loose among the  _ decent _ people of the Order. And look where it had led! The worst sort of anarchy, really...

Hux finds himself strangely unmoved by contemplating this conflict within the Order. He should be furious, he knows. Possibly it’s that the Order grew less interesting the less likely he was to ever lead it. Possibly it’s just shock. 

He should probably get out of bed and use the fresher, that would help.

Movement and and an empty bladder do improve his mood, despite the cold. Possibly there are new possibilities. If nothing else, he’s sure there’s been a shakeup in leadership.  _ Quite _ possibly he can make contact with the fragments of the First Order’s great army.  _ Quite _ possibly those men are regretting the day they threw away Armitage Hux.

He still hasn’t quite figured out Phasma’s reasoning, though. 

What  _ does _ she think of him? 

It’s not as if Hux thinks of himself as a person who doesn’t inspire  _ feelings _ . Admiration, respect, envy, yes. But care? How very odd.

It’s not an unpleasant thought, though.

The door to the bunks is shiny enough for him to examine his appearance. Well, she didn’t save him for his dapper looks. He can tell he’s a wreck, even in the warped reflection, and he feels one too--soon he’ll need a shave, and a good wash. A uniform, too. 

How many people had seen him wandering down the halls in these pajamas, anyway? Hopefully they’ve all died. If they haven’t, he’ll order Phasma to kill them for him.

_ Loyal girl. _

The best way he can repay Phasma is by retaking command. She deserves a reward for her faithful service, and the sooner he finds himself back on the bridge of a ship--a destroyer, at the very least!--the sooner he can give it to her.

He punches the latch button. The door slides open, and for the first time in ages Hux is free to go where he pleases. 

Phasma is nowhere to be seen as he walks down to the cockpit and into the pilot’s chair, but that’s all right. She must be taking a well-deserved rest.He feels indulgent toward her, and decides to let her sleep. She’ll be happy to see him back where he’s naturally supposed to be.

_ Things can only get better from here, for the both of us. _


	3. Chapter 3

The hard way hadn’t been very hard at first. After finding a handy tow cable, then making contact with a certain connection and figuring out some coordinates, there had been nothing to do but turn off the comms and beacons and set a course. Hux had fully cooperated by staying asleep. Phasma had watched him on the cam, twisting the tow cable between her fingers. He started out in a ramrod straight position, then curled up into a ball, tucking his face into his shoulder.

She had used to watch over people like this all the time, before she even knew that things like cameras and ships existed. Standing watch over the members of her clan. Her brother.

_ Will you protect me?  _

_ Of course. Haven’t I proved it? _

It hadn’t worked out, in the end. She hadn’t been able to protect her brother from his own self. Her brother would have been stronger than Hux, that’s for sure. Frail little thing.

Maybe watching other people sleep makes you sleepy yourself. Or maybe Phasma is getting sympathetic and senile in her old age (thirty? Forty? Maybe? She doesn’t know the the precise count, but probably older than any of the adults she’d seen growing up, anyway).

In any case, she had decided to let Hux rest for a while, and take a rest herself. She had sheltered the shuttle inside a particularly dull asteroid, and set up the proximity alarms. It wasn’t ideal, but even the legendary Phasma had to sleep sometime.

When she wakes up, the door to the troopers’ bunks is wide open.

How the hell did that happen? 

It turns out that whichever idiot, moron,  _ dirtsucking _ troopers had been using this shuttle as their own personal drug supply also broke the lock to the bunk. Captain Phasma would need to know  _ exactly  _ what was going on in here that required the lock to be broken, but that’s irrelevant now. Phasma as Phasma needs to find where her bounty has gone.

It’s the worst possible situation. When she gets to the cockpit, Hux is hunched over the comms equipment. 

Bits of familiar-sounding chit-chat are coming through--he’s managed to get in range of Order communications. There’s only one thing to do. Phasma pulls back for a sucker punch and--

“What the fuck is that?” Phasma recognizes the voice through the crackles in the speakers. It’s Captain Mireno, a fat little ex-Imperial who commands the  _ Victrix _ . “Lieutenant Elori, are you playing that sound sampler? Now is not the fucking time for jokes.” 

“This is General Armitage Hux of the First Order.” He’s so frustrated that he hasn’t even noticed her about to knock him out. What’s going on?

“I swear I’m not.” A burst of high-pitched laughter. “Akken must be doing it.”

“Akken, shut that shit off right now, this is a busy channel.”

“It’s not me, I don’t even think that’s on the sampler.”

Hux fumbles with a few of the controls. He’s not used to doing this himself. “I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

More laughter, as if he’s told the funniest joke in the galaxy. At least Hux hasn’t managed to get a direct line to Ren.

Mireno comes back online, voice like a klaxon, swearing in the name of every god in the galaxy. “Whoever is fucking playing that sampler, I will leave my post and personally come over and gut you. You will be wishing that Kylo Ren had his magic sword up your ass by the time I’m done with you. Shut that shit  _ off! _ ”

The laughter dies away and is replaced by the suitably responsible replies of subordinates.

“These fucking children, Peavey, it’s not funny. Those madmen didn’t train them right. They’re either fucking playing pranks or turning traitor for a fucking wizard. You know it wasn’t this way under Tarkin.” 

Peavey’s slick voice comes over the comm. “Hold strong. At least Hux is dead, so we have a chance on this one.”

“Small mercies. I really wished I’d never have to hear that voice again.” A pause in comms, long enough that Phasma wonders if they’ve dropped out of range. Then Mireno’s voice returns, quieter and strained. “Lieutenant, I need coverage on the starboard side. Launch--”

The transmission cuts off. The  _ Victrix _ has drifted further into space, or perhaps it’s just met a particularly nasty end. Neither possibility particularly troubles Phasma. She reaches up out of habit to unlock her helmet, then remembers that she is free to wipe her own face. 

That was absolutely the best way that situation could have played out. Insane, insane luck--a ship whose officers are happy to stay totally ignorant of the true fates of the previously infamous Captain Phasma and General Armitage Hux. 

And it all hinged on a sound sampler! Who would have guessed? Phasma knows some of the officers use their datapad recorders for unauthorized purposes, manipulating the sounds to play little jokes or mock their superiors. The last fad had been recording Kylo Ren while he was throwing a tantrum, then scaring unsuspecting passersby with his weird, vocoder-warped wails and grunts. These activities had been frivolous, but Phasma had ignored them, as she long as she didn’t notice them spreading among her troopers. Relatively harmless stuff.

Judging by his expression, Hux wouldn’t agree.

He’s crouched over the console, propping himself up with one hand. The other is pressed to his chest. Over his heart. Sweat is dripping down his forehead.  _ His heart is cracking, he’ll die of shame _ , she thinks, and then decides that’s ridiculous, he’s just upset. 

“Ah, Captain..” He registers that she’s there. “I--have you been keeping watch? I suggest you go back to your post.” 

“My post?”

“Yes, well--” It’s like watching a droid malfunction. His eyelids drop, his lips twist. Something goes wrong with his voice. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Phasma. So very sorry.”

It’s no surprise when Hux turns on his heels and disappears. In the face of humiliation, he tends to retreat. Phasma can even recognizes the gait he uses--a kind of bouncy trot that’s this close to running.

It  _ is _ a surprise when he manages to find the officer’s berth--the one that locks from the inside. But it’s no surprise that he locks himself away. And it’s no surprise that Phasma doesn’t have the ship-specific override code. 

Fine, then. Everything has really worked out for the best. Hux obviously didn’t even made himself his own cell, without Phasma even having to lay a hand on him. All she’ll have to do is find a good electropick and pry him out when the time comes. 

It’s  _ really _ for the best. 

A thin wail emerges from behind the durasteel door. Phasma catches herself before she rattles the handle.

She tells herself isn’t her business what her  _ bounty’s _ emotional state is, after all.

This has to be strictly business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phasma's relationship with her brother didn't work out because she killed him in battle. It's less disturbing if you grew up in the Thunder Dome.


	4. Chapter 4

_ I’m not in control. _

Hux huddles on the bed in the officer's berth, knees up to his chest, one hand clasping the other. He’s unwell. His heart races. When he gets up, he feels dizzy, although he knows that he has an excellent inner ear so it  _ can’t _ be physiological. He has little bouts of the shakes, which he attempts to ease by squeezing his hands, or gnawing his lip, or falling back into other childish habits. 

He will  _ not _ leave this room until he has command of himself. 

They had thought he was a joke! His voice, a joke! Did they even remember his great project, which had conquered the very stars! What did Astrif Mireno have to show for herself? That flabby bitch, that deadweight. She and that evil, detestable fuck Peavey had their hands on his fleet. It was--it was  _ unfair _ .

Hux wonders why they thought he was dead. Well, there was the obvious reason, the explosions, but the underlying one… He hadn’t been forgotten while he was lying in that sickbed. They were  _ all _ happy to have him gone.

Hux examines his memories of his last few weeks of duty. There had been undertones of exasperation in the crew’s voices, insolent glances that he felt but could never quite catch. He had told himself he was imagining things, that it was stress. He had thought of his troops--and hadn’t he carefully conserved them?--as tired, ill, perhaps untried by adversity; after the incident on the bridge, he had told himself that he had lost control because of Ren’s foulness. 

Now he knows the truth. They despise Ren, which was only proper, but they despise him, too. He, who had given his whole life to them, who had been the architect of their greatest weapon! 

_ A fucking child. They only have a chance without him.  _

Perhaps he had been… Oh, no. He will never, never, never, until the last day, allow himself to think he had  _ genuinely _ been  _ incompetent _ . 

Hux punches the wall out of frustration. It doesn’t have a lot of give, obviously, and he wails, involuntarily. He’s loud when he’s hurt, could never take a beating in full silence, and he knows he sounds funny when it happens.  _ What a laugh you are, Armitage. _

_ I wish I were dead. _

It’s a childish thought, petulant enough to make him feel slightly better. He knows where it comes from, too. When he was very young, he had managed to get his hands on an impossibly ancient holocron of history stories, meant for young viewers. The holocron had a remarkable focus on exotic practices, most of which were intolerably decadent. The story that had made the most impression was about a queen of Boralis or Naboo, one of those insufferably pretty, useless planets. After losing a lover, the queen had committed self-destruction in a bathing pool fed by a hot spring. Said spring was described as “bubbling” and “clear,” which seemed mysterious and luxurious compared to the mud and grainy chemwater of Arkanis. Hux remembers concluding that the water itself had killed the queen, perhaps when too many bubbles exploded in her female parts. Later, with a slightly better knowledge of the female anatomy, he realized she must have slit her wrists. The gouts of blood pulsing into the warm, clean water, the woman’s skin slowly losing its color until she lies breathless, a statue made of flesh, painted white in those people’s strange way. 

Hux imagines himself in that impossibly large pool, the little bubbles playing against his skin. How oddly noble he would look, naturally white, like a statue made of Borallian marble. How sad they’d be to have lost him.  _ Then _ they’d remember what he’d really done, how he’d created them! Led them to victory! Oh, how’d they’d cry when they saw his chiseled face.

It’s not an entirely new fantasy. In better circumstances, he’d imagined his future tributes, the portraits, the statues. Metal and stone shaped to depict his body, his uniform, his rank. Grand Marshal Hux, master of strategy. Supreme Leader Hux!

_ And look at you now. _

The trembling starts again, worse than before. Perhaps the medication the nurses forced on him has crippled him somehow, so he’ll always shake like this. Or perhaps this is what the medication had kept away, this awful feeling of failure, of abject fear. As if he’s about to walk to his own execution.

_ You’ll end up more like your father, no doubt. A scrap of hair, a few bones, a fingernail or two in a bacta tank. A bowel floating to the surface.  _

_ They would have shot you if you had gotten through to them. They wanted you dead. _

Hux’s own bowels cramp. 

Fortunately, the officers berth has its own fresher. After he’s finished his business, Hux goes back to rest. At least the accommodations afford him some relief. An officer’s berth is better-appointed than a trooper’s bunk, of course, but the bedclothes smell like someone else in a way that’s oddly comforting. Hux plays with a white hair that he finds on the pillow, rubbing it between his fingers. Phasma must have slept here, after the disaster. 

His mind won’t allow him to rest, to think of her hand on his back, how nice that had felt. How happy he had been, just to see her face. 

_ Why did she take this berth? Since when is she allowed? _

She had been insubordinate, not so long ago. She had acted as if he hadn’t been smart enough to figure Ren out on his own.

_ You apologized to her, too. Never do that. Now she’ll think she can do whatever she wants. _

What has he shown Phasma except  weakness? What must she think of him, apologizing like that? When she heard his name in Mireno’s foul mouth?

_Does she respect you? She might desert._

The thought is so incredible that he mewls in horror. 

_ You’ll be all by yourself.  _

Psychotics like Ren may closet themselves away for “spiritual training,” but Hux has never been physically alone, not for a single day that he can remember. The structure of his life forbade solitude. How can there be order without hierarchy, without someone to give commands and someone to obey? Even at his lowest, there had been people assigned to provide care, of a sort. He had obeyed the nurses, and presumably the nurses had obeyed a doctor, and the structure had replicated itself up to the very highest levels. It’s the rightful way of the world. 

There’s still a shred of that world left,  event here on this ship. And he  _ has _ to be in control, even if it’s only a world of two.

_ I’m sorry, indeed. _

Hux uncurls his arm and reaches under the bed. Just as he expected, there’s a series of metal slats keeping the mattress up. He grabs one and wiggles it out. It’s sharp already, as evidenced by the cuts it makes to his hand; seeing the blood calms him for some reason. He won’t have to do a lot of work on it. Good.

He’ll show Phasma who’s in command. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hux, the fat-shaming pig. 
> 
> Canonically, Hux had Phasma poison his father, who then exploded in a bacta tank. He's willing to chat about it, too, if he thinks it makes him look clever!


	5. Chapter 5

Hux is in full retreat. He hasn’t emerged for his meals, to help fly, for anything. Phasma can hear movement, but he doesn’t respond to her enquiries.

There isn’t a cam feed for the officer’s berth--there should be, but it’s been broken. Fixing it would involve accessing the lens and wiring in the berth, which--without a pick--she can’t access either.

Phasma wouldn’t mind the solitude so much except that she’s starting to fear for Hux’s health. She assumes that Hux’s sickroom on the  _ Finalizer _ had been designed to prevent the inhabitants from harming themselves. This shuttle has no such precautions.

He’s no good to her as a corpse.

Those sorts of worries can’t compete with the reality of a rapidly emptying fuel tank. Phasma lands the shuttle on a moon known as a smugglers’ stop for some black-market fuel. Hux seems just as oblivious to the landing as he is to everything else. Phasma makes sure to lock the shuttle doors from the outside--at least he won’t wander off onto the planet itself. 

Eronika is a poor, craggy place, the kind of spot where it’s surprising that they can keep the atmo from dribbling off somewhere nicer. That’s why Phasma picked it--they’re willing to barter fuel for things like bacta and ration vacpacs. The market is shabby, too--a few stalls surrounding the pumps. The creatures running these stalls are dirty, both the humanoids and the xenos, and Phasma thinks she can even see the bones through something that would otherwise look like a tiny Hutt. Hungry, miserable, mean, and out for themselves. 

Phasma isn’t afraid. She still moves as if she has her armor. All her life, she’s worn a mask of one sort or another, and showing her face to the world is unnerving. Sometimes, Phasma promises herself that when this journey ends, she’ll get herself the best helmet credits can buy and wear it day and night. Sometimes, she wonders if it’s best to practice going without. After all, even the most sophisticated armor can crack. 

Some of the inhabitants whistle or yelp at Phasma as she passes through the crumbling market. It pisses her off like nothing else that she can’t simply smash them with a staff or blast them. It’s not just the armor she’s gotten used to, it’s having troops at her back and the best-maintained weapons that Snoke’s money could buy. I can’t be as aggressive as I used to. I have to plan my battles.

Just as Phasma has the thought, one stupid creature has the nerve to grab at her ass.

He comes away with a few less tentacles on his slimy face.

Phasma watches as he runs off, her heart soaring as bubbles of slime-snot pop out from where parts of his face used to be. She’s tempted to buy a chain to hang the tentacles on, get back into the old habit of taking trophies. 

Then again, they stink like a rotting lizards’ nest.

The rest of these filthy creatures are suddenly  _ very _ willing to bargain with her.

However, it turns out there isn’t much useful on Eronika except the fuel. There’s some cheap clothing, some cheap booze, and a variety of primitive, brown foodstuffs, including several kinds of crumbled-up leaves. Judging by the motions that the traders make with their hands and mouths, these leaves are for drinking, not smoking. Phasma knows that Hux enjoys leaf drink, so she purchases what she thinks are several varieties of the stuff. 

Maybe that will lure him out of his room, she thinks, as she pushes the hoverpallet of fuel canisters over to the landing spot. Fueling a ship is always easier with two.

She keys the shuttle door open and just as she’s ascending the steps, something shiny flies down by the side of her face.

Well, Hux is out and about.

He’s standing in the doorway, brandishing a nasty-looking piece of metal. It’s like a big version of the tiny shard knives that she would sharpen as a kid.

Fuck. So that’s what he was doing in his room.

“I hadn’t given you orders to land, Captain,” Hux hisses.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Hux is not a physically strong man, but he has an advantage here--she’s standing on a set of unrailed, flimsy boarding steps, and he’s on level ground and armed. She can take him, but he could get in a lucky hit. More likely, she’ll have to incapacitate him in a way that will make him less useful to her. 

“What were you doing? I’m not letting you back on the ship until you answer me.”  _ Letting you back on _ . Phasma notices that he isn’t standing like someone who’s about to start a fight. Instead, he’s holding his weapon like a ceremonial sword, ramrod straight, trying to take up as much space in the doorway as he can.

This isn’t an ambush. It’s a power play. 

“When I used the comms before--” He breaks off, and jabs at the floor, presumably to cover up his embarrassment. “I noticed that I had to turn it on. Did you cut off the transmissions?”

“Yes, sir.” Oh, fuck. Has he somehow managed to unerase her logs? Seen the calls she’d made?

“That’s insubordination.” 

Ah, the  _ real _ problem. “The situation is unstable. Any sort of transmission might have led us into danger, sir, it almost did--” She pushes her way into the doorway, forcing Hux to retreat. 

“That was never your choice to make!” Hux shrills. Phasma notices his hand fall to his side. “Do you have any respect for the chain of command?”

“I acted in our own best interests.”

“Our interests?  _ Our  _ interests? Since when do you presume to be my equal?” 

“I don’t. I never have.” He can take that whichever way he pleases. “If my services so displease you, I’ll resign my commission.”

She’s gone a bit too far with the game--obviously she’s not going to resign her commission, for whatever that’s worth, she’s not going to back to the Eronika market to spend her days selling dirt weed and raggedy kids’ shirts with pictures of Yrolokian fuzzballs on the front. 

Predictably, Hux hasn’t thought that far ahead. He suddenly slumps, as if a string inside him has been cut. The knife drops from his fingers. 

“You’re staying here with me. You have to.” The catch in his voice sounds familiar, and Phasma suddenly remembers where she’d heard it--as part of a joke, when he’d mock Ren for pouting and crying. Our needy little magician, he said. She’d laughed at Hux’s descriptions, even though he kept doing it and she really didn’t think it was funny. 

She’s always at least  _ pretended _ to obey him. 

Phasma watches as he composes himself into parade rest. He wants to hide that his hand is bleeding, she guesses. He’s only managed to hurt himself, poor idiot.

“Recently, I’ve not lived up to my own high standards.” 

Apparently Phasma is going to be treated to a speech. 

“I let myself be influenced by that disgusting Ren. Because of that, a great deal was lost. The overarching mission to bring order to the galaxy--”

Does he really believe that he ruined everything himself? Poor man, he must actually feel guilty about it. She’d probably feel the same way about lowering those shields if she really believed that dominating the galaxy was  _ that _ important.

“--now in the hands of these fifth-rate intelligences--”

Oh, he’s just mad at Peavey and Mireno. Figures. 

“I understand that the mission hasn’t gone exactly as planned. I--I haven’t provided the leadership on this mission that you rely on me to provide. I shouldn’t have relied on the vagaries of others, I know that now. I’ve developed plans.” It turns out that has thought of something. They’ll regroup on Bisb, in the company of his old colleague Sloane. He has thought of a few ways in which the Order could be reconstituted, and--

Phasma isn’t really listening. She knows what direction he expects to go in, and that’s enough. She can rearrange a rendezvous along that route and he’ll be none the wiser. 

“Your service to me has been impeccable. And I--it’s a superior’s responsibility--I didn’t set the best example, but.” Hux’s voice cracks. “I--perhaps--I hoped you found some value in it.”

His mask slips so easily--behind the public face of the screaming killer he’s only a childish little chit-chatterer. 

Fortunately, people are willing to pay a lot of money to get to that screaming killer.

Phasma realizes her own face must be showing. Is she smiling? Oh, damn, she’s not. Which is good, because Hux can see her, but bad, because it  _ should _ be something to smile about. She should be happier about the money. Why isn’t she?

She bows her head, both to look subservient and to hide her expression, whatever the hell it is.

“You’re of value to me, sir.” It’s not a lie. 

She moves toward him, more to corral him than to comfort him, and suddenly his arms are around her.  _ He’s going to try to fucking strangle me _ , and it’s a relief that she’s finally going to do the normal thing and just fight until she registers that  Hux is crying, his face pressed against the muscles of her shoulder. 

It’s all very strange. Phasma concentrates on how physically uncomfortable this discharge of emotion is. The tears and spit and mucus soaking through the fabric of her shirt, the jump of his belly against hers, the way his fingers are almost gouging through her skin, he’s holding onto her so hard. 

Despite that, she remembers that has happened to her before, long long ago. She had had to take care of someone, when they were hurt and bleeding.

She catches herself before she touches him back.

“I need to fuel the ship, sir.” 

“Mmm, yes. You do. Where are we?” He looks like a kid, face red, eyes shiny, upper lip slick with snot. His voice is thick but oddly sweet, like he’s just curious about what’s out there. No orders in it, for once.

“Eronika.” Why did she tell him the truth? For all he knows, they’re in the Pits of Dark Abandonment. “Your hand is bleeding. You should see to it while I’m out, so you don’t get poison in the blood. All right?”

“Poison in the blood? Hux shakes his head. “The term is infection, Captain.”

Oh, good, he’s turning back into his usual self. Reality is restored.

It doesn’t last. When she returns from fueling, he's perfectly composed. He’s bandaged his hand and changed into some of the stuff she found in the market--pants, a sweater with three arms. He even offers her a cup of something to drink. It’s almost like stepping into a little house from a holo.

“It was quite kind of you to get this tea for me, Captain. We’ve been together for so long… you know what I like.” He’s beginning to grow a beard. He could be a groundstetter, a farmer, if you didn’t know any better.

_ No, I don’t know you, not now _ , Phasma thinks as she sips the tea. She’s very tired.  _ I’ll have to clean you up if I sell you off.  _ When _ I sell you off. _

Did she say that out loud? No, couldn’t be. Best to take a rest before heading off.

Phasma stumbles into the officer’s berth. She dreams of sitting watch, perched on top of a tall spire of rock above the sea, so high up that she can’t hear the waves. There’s room at her post for no one else, but something is dragging at her hand.

_ Go away, you bastard.  _ But it won’t let go until it drags her off balance. 

The last thing she sees before hitting the ground is a flash of red.


	6. Chapter 6

Hux hunches over the small desk in the officers’ berth and stabs a particularly decrepit datapad with his finger. He’s had a wonderful idea for a new weapon--one that will destroy flesh, but leave resources behind. How has nobody thought of this before? The design will be complex, but at least he’s thought of a name. With some difficulty, he inputs the letters on the screen:

_ star devourer _

Well, it’s a start. He hasn’t the same engineering resources as he did, but he has time, and the promise of a reunion with Sloane, or at least with the stash of resources he’d heard she had stowed away on Bisb. There is a goal to work towards.

And there is a loyal captain to help him on his way.

He knows that now. He impressed his physical authority on Phasma, made a thorough explanation of himself, and Phasma realized his worth. 

_ Did you really? You cried at her.  _

Hux takes a sip of his tea. The habit reassures him, as does the presence of the tea itself. The purchase was a thoughtful gesture from his captain. Not that Phasma is a connoisseur; most of the stuff she bought is cheap and tasteless, except for one vile variety that he realized was flavored with tiny flowers only after it was halfway down his throat. 

Oh, and she bought chami leaves. 

He can’t forget those.

Chami is a very effective sleep aid, so much so that it’s usually cut with other blends of tea, not sold pure as it has been here. Hux  _ had _ thought of Phasma as an expert on various body-altering substances, but his memories must have been colored by their collusion over his father--she’s actually rather naive and didn’t recognize what she bought. 

Chami is supposed to be especially potent if you haven’t had it before. Hux has never felt the need for more sleep, so he can’t attest to that himself, but it seems to have worked particularly well on Phasma.

He has to admit that he’s content. Oddly content. Part of it is pride, that he has managed to reinstate order in these circumstances. He has his little routine--this cycle, like every cycle, he finishes his tea and puts down the datapad. Phasma brings him a light breakfast, then he does his stretches and resumes work on his weapons plans and his manifesto. 

When the cycle is done, he shares mealtime with Phasma and does the after-dinner drinks.

What comes next is the happiest part of his day. Phasma excuses herself, tired by the day’s work and by the sedative compounds working within her. After a certain amount of time has passed, Hux enters the troopers’ bunks, which Phasma has arranged for her own comfort. He lies down on Phasma’s mattresses, a bit fuzzy minded from a shot of the Eronikan liquor, and arranges himself by her side. 

The heat of a human body next to his, no discipline on either side--

For a few hours of every cycle, Armitage Hux is gloriously, decadently weak.

It’s all wonderfully chaste, of course. He doesn’t want to risk more, for multiple reasons. Were she to awaken, what would her reaction be? She might be angry. Or events might turn another way--she might demand some sort of  _ satisfaction _ out of him. His own lack of experience in these matters and his own inclinations leave him disinclined to pursue such a course of action. 

(What if went the other way around? If she tried to please him, to make him respond to  _ her _ ? 

Oh, no. He can’t keep doing this. Shuddering, making noise. Fluids leaking out. A disgrace. Control is best.)

Besides, Hux tells himself,  _ most importantly _ , out of her armor Phasma may be a majestic specimen, but he knows of her primitive upbringing, that she came into the First Order’s ranks at a conspicuously elderly age. While the Order scrupulously examines and, if necessary, treats its recruits, venereal complications sometimes remain--as he knows from several explicit lessons on the subject of social health. He is perfectly happy to remain ignorant of these matters as they pertain to the captain.

No, it’s best to simply lie next to her. 

Hux reaches behind him and fumbles for Phasma’s hand. She has calluses on her fingers--they’ve worked together all this time and he never even knew that until a few cycles ago. He idly wonders if she would take his hand if they were both conscious, then dismisses such a request as an action unworthy of a leader. 

Besides, when he showed her his gratitude for her loyalty, when he had taken her in his arms, there had been no answering embrace, no words of support. So he suspects that were he,  _ theoretically _ , to ask, Phasma would not take it well.

He’s learned through example in these matters.

Long ago, when he hadn’t known anything other than a tiny patch of one planet, Hux had lived with his father in an academy for young Imperial soldiers. It had been mostly staffed by local labor, instead of droids--cheaper to use, less likely to rust. Most of the workers were human females, pale women with pale hair, all washed out like the rest of their planet. Mudpeople, Brendol had called them. They had a pretty language, though, that they spoke among themselves, and Hux picked up a few of the words. The women would say their pretty things to one other, then touch hands. He thought this motion was rather graceful, even though it was performed by lesser beings.

One day he found some of these women gathered in one of the covered passages by the training fields, passing round a bubblepipe while the rain poured down overhead. 

Tamping down his fear of strangers, Hux approached them. One of the women was a particular favorite of his; sometimes he saw her outside the walls of the compound, walking home with a child toddling at her side. He didn’t think much of the child, who was fat and stupid, but he liked the way she kissed it and stroked its hair. If he said some of her pretty words to her, he reasoned, he might get a kiss too. He was certainly more deserving of it than that little brat.

He brushed his fingers against the woman’s chalk-colored hand, and said her word.

The woman snapped her hand away. Hux can’t remember the exact words that she shouted at him, more the expression on her face--anger, and worse than that, disgust. Maybe she had called him a bastard or a little shit. 

What he does remember is that the woman actually pushed him into the grass. He had watched, dazed, as she and the other maids rushed together to comfort one of their own. 

Why weren’t they comforting him? He was the one in the wet and cold, he was the one who was crying--yes, he was, and yes, it had been shameful even then. 

One of the woman--his favorite--yelled at him. “Get going! You don’t have anything to cry about!” 

Anyway, he had gotten going, tears streaming down his face. For some reason, he didn’t report them, possibly because he had felt there was something in the incident that incriminated himself--that he knew the mudpeople’s words, that he had courted their favor. Instead, he merely caught a backhand for getting muddy. A few weeks or days later, and he was pulled off planet and never went back.

It had all been for the best, really. What would it would have been like to be that spoiled, constantly kissed and petted and fawned over, like that little brat? When he was put in command of his first soldiers, some of the shorter ones would bawl for their parents, and he openly despised them for it. Yes, he was happy to have never had the occasion to be so weak himself. 

Still, sometimes he had longings. He did have vague memories of a pair of mechanical arms. He would press himself against the laundry droids to recreate the sensation, but it wasn’t quite the same, and one day he was almost caught and had to explain his interest in such a mindless chore. He had concocted a lie about how a washing tub was the miniature of the Death Star’s legendary gyroscope, and given up the habit for good.

And that had been that. 

Actually, he had forgotten the whole incident with the Arkanis women until he was well into his twenties and overheard some elderly ex-Imperial speaking about Arkanis and the chaos that had happened there after the Imperial withdrawal. They had had signs and symbols, code words. “I remember them chit-chattering with their slogans.”

“But what did that word mean?” 

“Arkanis for Arkanians, or Arkanis will be free, or some sort of nonsense. It was the initials to something, at least in their language. They grew quite impudent, near the end.”

Hux turned his face away to hide any giveaway blush. He had thought it meant “I love you.”

Now, years and years later, Hux whispers the word out loud. It’s not exactly that he means it, but it feels pleasant on the tongue. Anyway, Phasma wouldn’t know what it meant even if she were awake.

Very carefully, Hux wraps Phasma’s arm around his waist. The moist breaths on his neck don’t change in pace; she hasn’t noticed, the chami is still doing its work. Her chest feels good against his back. She’s only barely soft there, which makes him feel safe, as if he doesn’t have to protect her. It’s like being in the warm spring he’s fantasized about, only he’s alive, and he’s not a statue for everyone to look upon and judge, but secure in the presence of just one person. 

This is better than any droid.

But it isn’t  _ quite _ enough. Hux thinks again of lying in his sickbed, waiting for Phasma’s reply after confessing to the things he’d done, his mysterious humiliations. How he had wanted her respect! Now that he knows that he has it, all he wants is for her to stroke his hair and say something sweet to him.

_ You can’t have both at once, you know. _

This is the closest he can come to what he wants. In a way, he’s as proud of this method as anything he’s ever done--it’s no triumph of engineering, but he calms himself for an hour or two, and Phasma suffers nothing more than a nasty headache.  _ Clever boy _ .

Phasma twitches and grunts under her breath. Hux pushes himself to his feet and throws himself onto the nearest bunk. If she wakes, he can say that she made a strange noise, that he came in to check on her--

Hux watches as Phasma rolls over onto her back, her face blank with sleep under the low lights of the bunks.

False alarm.

_ You’re being too nervous. She probably doesn’t even dream. _

Still, it’s best to be careful. Hux tiptoes back to the officer’s berth and takes the datapad up in his cold hands--if he’s not going to sleep, he might as well be of use. 

_ Keep working. Tomorrow, you’ll be that much closer to everything you desire. _


	7. Chapter 7

Phasma is beginning to long for simpler times.

It’s a stupid thing to do. She’s better off now than she would have been if she had died on the  _ Finalizer _ , or died on the  _ Supremacy _ , or died on the Starkiller. She’s always made the most practical decisions for herself, she thinks. Soon she’ll be rich, and beholden to no one but herself. Alone, very alone. This is good. This is her aim.

Perhaps it’s that her recent decisions haven’t been violent  _ enough _ . Almost every problem in Phasma’s life so far could be stabbed, bludgeoned, or shot. She’s climbed her way out of other ones, or blocked them with her armor or, if necessary, the body of a slower trooper. 

It’s odd to think that she hasn’t swung a baton or shot a blaster in  _ days _ .

Anyway, she’s in a vile mood. 

Something on her stinks. It’s not her. Everything in the First Order had been clean, probably to a wasteful degree, but she still had sweat enough to know what she smelled like. She’s not used to wearing anything other than an armor undersuit, though. Maybe cheap civilian clothes are supposed to smell sharp, or she was ripped off in Eronika. She doesn’t like the idea that some shriveled, hairy little market trader could have tricked her with something as simple as dirty clothes. 

_ When you start living somewhere new, what else will you have to learn? Can you learn it fast enough to survive? _

Maybe she won’t be. She’s getting slow, dropping off to sleep right after meals. She even dreams about sleeping--that she’s curled up in the old caverns, her brother warm against her back, although for some reason he’s sickly and bony. In the dream she knows it’s natural to sleep this way, both to share body heat and for quick access to your weapons. 

When she wakes up for real, she hardly has the energy to pull a knife. It’s like someone took a stick to her forehead and mashed up everything inside, and it keeps like that for too much of the cycle. Head cracking like a rotten gull egg, as the family used to say. 

Why does she keep thinking about the old times? Why can’t she think about the glorious, prosperous future?

Maybe she’s sick with a planetary disease, or maybe she’s up against time itself. Nobody lived very long back on Parnassos. Phasma thinks that she should have a lot longer to go, that she should be healthier because of the First Order’s filtered air, its nutrient-rich food, its wonder medication. Even so, she guesses that at some point in time she’ll drop off like the elders at home--healthy enough one moment, a rasping heap of flesh the next. 

Maybe she’s overestimated the powers of the Order. Maybe her burns are infected where she can’t see. Maybe she’s about to die.

Maybe the biggest problem is just that the transport is so slow. Phasma is used to ships that can leap through sky and space in a moment. This journey is like plodding through dunes on foot in comparison. This driveless ship will take forever to get to the dropoff point. Word could get around among other bounty hunters, or the ship could be attacked by scavengers. It’s another thing to worry about.

It would be almost impossible to get into the true Outer Rim in a ship like this, much less all the way to Bisb. Hux doesn’t seem to realize this. Phasma wonders if his mind is completely functioning, although whatever state he’s in is definitely convenient for her. Ever since he had his little outburst, he’s kept a steady mood. He takes watch in the cockpit when Phasma needs to sleep, and Phasma trusts him to do so; she’s noticed no deviations in the course or attempts to reactivate the comms. He hardly even noticed when they stopped for fuel again, except to thank Phasma for purchasing an electrorazor for him. (Phasma had purchased a blaster for herself. She got the better end of the deal)

Otherwise, he still keeps to the officer’s berth, but he comes out for meals, chatting merrily about how he’s planning bigger and bigger weapons and how he’s practicing his writing.

“I need to involve myself further in written communication to get the  _ true _ ideas of the Order across,” Hux proclaims, neatly dividing his rations with a knife and fork.“You see, I concentrated too hard on my oral skills before.”

Phasma snorts.

Hux lifts his head, suddenly alert, his thick lips pressed together.

“I got something stuck in my throat.”

“Cut your food into smaller pieces next time, Captain.” He’s back on track, going on about his manifesto. Phasma wonders what she’d see if she tried to read it. She imagines a bunch of drawings, like what kids carve into walls when they’re bored.

“Have some tea, Captain.”

Hux likes to share his drink. It’s a good thing she bought so much of the stuff. Phasma does enjoy watching him go through his ritual, taking out a spoonful of leaves, placing them in a mug, and pouring hot water on top. She suspects that there’s some pattern to these movements that Hux thinks she’s too uncultured to handle, but it’s no insult to her if it gets him to prepare some of the food.

“Here you are.” Hux leans over, lifting a cup, brushing himself against her shoulder.

Phasma recognizes why she’s been so upset. 

Hux _stinks_. Phasma had assumed it was physically impossible for him to produce a strong odor like other human beings. It’s probably because he’s the first person she ever met who was clean, and he kept being clean for all the years she knew him. Even when he was sick, someone kept him relatively free of sweat.

Now, with fewer layers of gaberwool on him and without a sonic cleanser, he produces an amazingly sour stench. It wafts out of his sweater, stronger than the scent of the leaves brewing or the remains of the meal.

It’s the same smell that’s on her own clothes.

All of the strange worries die off in an instant, and new ones bloom up in their place.

_ I’m not about to die. _

“To your health, Captain.” Phasma looks up to see Hux toasting her, cupping his mug in his pale hands. 

_ He’s about to die, the little shit. _

Phasma doesn’t know why she still feels sad. First, she’s not about to die of old age. Second, she has an enemy to set herself against, even if that enemy is Hux. These are good, real things.

It must be that it _felt_ real to be kind to him. It's an injury to her pride. The elder Hux had explained the meaning of those words to her while blathering on about the defeat of one of his many enemies.

Phasma had been puzzled. “What’s the use of injuring his pride? He’s not dead. He’s not even really injured.”

Brendol bared his grayish teeth. “We know he’s not as clever as he thought he was.”

Brendol hadn’t been as clever as he thought he was, either. And now--

Phasma watches as Hux taps his slender fingers against his mug. He looks so harmless. She had thought she could handle him, that she was being so smart, keeping him content, in what he thought was his rightful place. 

Why hadn’t she just tied him up?

She had told herself that he’d be unhappy, that he would stop eating. She’d have to keep him cooped up too long and he’d get sick. He’d pine and die and all this effort would be for nothing.

_ Those are excuses. _

She had just liked seeing him happy. She’d been trained into it, grown accustomed to being his subordinate, the shiny plaything of the First Order.

And her reward for playing the loyal captain? For doing what a real subordinate would do, out of respect and care?

She’s weakened. Once she would have split a human’s face open just for looking at her and let the body fall into the sand, the blood and flesh food for beetles. Now she’s been bested by a mere trooper who can’t even hold his own in a skirmish, who was fit only for cleaning floors. Bested _twice._

She isn’t even thinking of Armitage.  _ His  _ one real kill is an unarmed woman. And he’d piss himself if those pretty fingers had to touch a broom.

_ What else has he touched, then? _

_ That’s  _ her reward, then. His plaything in all things.

How the fuck did she misjudge him so badly? Because he looks weak? 

Phasma feels her lips curl and her jaw tighten. She doesn’t need a mask--her face must be like her armor itself now, hard and fearsome. She probably looks like a human weapon.

“Are you all right, Captain? You look ill.” Armitage has the gall to look up at her, his face creased in concern. “You should drink that tea. It will make you feel better.”

Then he  _ smiles _ , as if they’re perfect friends.

His face would look  _ wonderful _ with a bloody gash down the middle of it.

But Phasma is a civilized woman now. Unfortunately. Her own maskless face apparently isn’t frightening, just sickly-looking. And maybe she really can’t just straight punch her way out of every problem anymore. Not when it might be even better to plan ahead, in a different way.

Anyway, she has to remember-- don't leave marks on the merchandise.

Damn, with this filthy drink in her hand, she’s almost what they call a lady. Like Kalla.

Her father never had said what happened to Kalla  _ after  _ she rescued that man _.  _ Or what happened to the man, for that matter. Presumably he was at Kalla’s mercy. 

They never did say what  _ his _ name was.

Phasma brings the cup to her lips and smiles back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The First Order corrupted Phasma out of smashing everything she sees :(


	8. Chapter 8

Hux stands in the doorway of the trooper’s bunks, watching Phasma sleep in the dim half-light. She’s too big for the standard frames and has taken to sleeping on several mattresses on the floor. Hux thinks of it as Phasma’s nest. 

There’s no reason to keep himself away from her, everything is safe. He saw her drink her dose, after all. He steps onto the mattresses and lowers himself beside her. 

It’s pleasant just to look at her, sometimes. She’s charmingly dull in appearance with her armor off, without the defined features and dark hair necessary for beauty in a woman of her complexion. Strands of her hair lie tousled across her scarred cheek, just as they do during the daytime. Hux remembers that she was neater about her person before her series of accidents, and tucks away a lock that threatens to slide into her half-open mouth.

_ There. _ She looks much better. 

He slips his hand into hers.

Phasma’s fingers curl around his. 

Hux registers this token of sleepy affection with shock. His body is shaking a little. It’s all right, though. It’s just an unsettling feeling, to have one’s emotions returned.

He watches as draws his hand to her lips, her eyes still closed, her breathing deep. The gesture wasn’t intentional, then; she’s obviously still unconscious. What must she be dreaming about? He certainly won’t wake her to ask. It’s too sweet, to the point where he almost doesn’t appreciate the sheer natural order of it when she kisses the back of his hand, the joints of his fingers. He remembers another image from that long-ago holocron, a galactic knight kneeling over a fair lady’s hand. No doubt it was all part of some inane cult, but the spirit of it had moved him despite his intellect--the devotion of it, yes. Adoration.

Hux feels the tip of Phasma’s tongue flick against his first finger.  _ Oh, that’s aggressive. Past the call of duty, there.  _ He smiles. Perhaps she’s dreaming about a love act. Fellatio, or whatever the female equivalent is. He’s never bothered himself too much about her preferences. 

_ Perhaps she’s dreaming about me. That’s her preference. _

Out of curiosity, nothing more, he twitches his finger into her mouth. It’s not as if she’ll know--

There’s a moment of terrible pressure and he feels his flesh peel away and his own bone crack. For a monomolecular sliver of time, all his existence lies in this one tiny part of his body.

He returns to an  _ emergency _ . Intense pain, loss of control. Everything must be coming out of him--tears, blood, noise--and he instinctively calls for his guards, his captain.

His captain is looming over him. A bloody string of spit hangs from her lips.

Phasma spits a wad of flesh into his face. Under the wet, Hux senses the smooth texture of his own fingernail.

“That’s for touching me.” Phasma reaches down and picks the dirty remains off his cheekbone. It’s almost gentle, until she slaps him. “And that’s for drugging me. Don’t do it again.” 

She rises and is gone, just like that.

Hux lies bleeding into Phasma’s nest. 

He has practice in recovering himself in public, in dealing with the kind of injuries that humiliation brings--markings, bruises, minor cuts. When he’s in his right mind, he can do it passably. The trick of it is to school one’s face. The actual injuries can be dealt with later, preferably by something mechanical in nature. If not, there are thousands of human personnel fit to see to the General’s medical needs. Had been, rather.

No one’s here to see him overcome this. No one is here at all. Except--

He has to rise to his feet, very slowly,  _ don’t look at it _ , and make his way to the medical supplies, which are--where are they? When he had cut his hand before, Phasma had brought the bacta to him. He’d go back to his berth and wait for her to do it again, except that she’s just bitten off his finger and she might want to kill him.

_ Insubordinate bitch.  _ He’ll have to kill her as soon as he figures out where any of these supplies are. He sways in front of one of the ship’s cabinets. Ah, there it is, the white box with the blue stripe, he’ll just apply the stuff and figure out the next step in the plan.  _ That’s it, Hux, keep going. _

He instinctively reaches out with the wrong hand. Pain lances down his arm, like steel is boiling through where the bone should be.

He feels hands underneath his armpits, propping him up on his feet. It’s a trooper, come to rescue him, thinks Hux, and leans back into their grasp.

_ Idiot, that’s Phasma.  _

He can’t even struggle. Let her do as she wants. All he can do is warn her of her place, as if it matters.

“You’re laying hands on a commanding officer. This is mutiny.”

 

“Come on, you’re in no fit state to command. You have to know that.” Phasma sounds almost cheery as she walks him into the cockpit. “You’re one to talk about laying hands. You pervert, drugging me like that. I could have have you up on charges of assault 22-B-4-5.”

Is she accusing him of--that’s monstrous! He had thought of her almost as an equal! 

“Are you calling me a rapist? That’s a vile accusation. Rescind that, immediately!” 

Phasma smiles, like they’re great friends and he’s told a wonderful joke, even though she’s tying him to the copilot’s chair. Her lips are clean, at least. The whole affair seems to be funny to her.

She’s imposing the mood on him, somehow. He tries a grin. “Anyway, you know the penalty for that. It’s execution, not mastication.”

Phasma’s smile disappears. He must remember that she has a limited vocabulary.

“I won’t execute you. I should, you’re a lot of trouble.” She drums her fingers against the instrument panel. She’s weighting something up, Hux can tell. Strange that he now knows her face well enough to intuit her expressions. “But you’re also worth a lot to me.”

Hux’s heart leaps, and then she mentions a number. 

“Money?” What in the void is she talking about? It occurs to Hux that he’s never really heard much of Phasma’s voice--she answers commands or asks him questions about himself, but she doesn’t speak on her own very often. 

When she does, it’s usually nothing good for him.

“Did you ever once think about why I took you out of your sickroom?”

He’s thought about it so much. “Because you wanted me along with you. You rescued me.”

Phasma shakes her head. “There’s a bounty on you. Everyone knew about it. Of course, it was theoretical at first. No one would have touched you when you were still in command, but it was easy to get to you later on.”

“You’re selling me to  _ terrorists _ .” Hux remembers a rather heated conversation he had had with another inferior years ago, someone who tried to warn him about Phasma.  _ Phasma’s a monster, she’ll turn on you in a heartbeat.  _ Hux had disliked the man, and dismissed him, and Phasma had disappeared him shortly afterwards. 

If there  _ are _ ghosts, Cardinal’s is out there laughing at him.

“How stupid can you be!” Phasma, at least, is still very much alive. More’s the pity.

“Do you think they have the credits to pay for you?” She snorts. “There’s nobody left on Hosnia to remember that speech of yours, but you managed to broadcast it out to a few of their relatives. There were a lot of different types of creatures on that planet. Enough of them had enough credits to put up a reward. I’m in a position to get it. It’s nothing personal.”

“And you’re happy to do this to me.” A stupid question. She just maimed him, after all. But this is worse. 

“I’m happy I thought of it, because otherwise I would have died when the Bellator fired. If I had waited any longer, we both would have died.” 

Hux recalls all of Phasma’s acts of kindness, bringing him things when he was ill, helping him eat when his hands trembled, refusing to obey his self-destructive orders. That had all been because he had been worth money to her. There had been no respect to it, not for the general he had been, not for the person he was. She had deluded him into thinking that she cared for him, poor disgraced Armitage, and lured him into  _ wanting _ her approbation as well. Her comfort. He had thought of her almost as a--

“You’re a monster,” Hux hisses.

“Not in public, I’m not.” Phasma’s merry mood seems to be building again. “All anyone knows about me is how shiny I am.” She actually giggles. Hux notices something stuck in her teeth.

Hux gags.

“Are you going to vomit?”

“No, no.” Perhaps what he saw is just something she ate earlier.

To distract himself, Hux imagines all the scum of the galaxy coming together to condemn him, the menacing Starkiller, the architect of the slaughter of Hosnia, and so on. It’s actually a rather exciting prospect, except that he’ll no doubt be executed in some horrible way at the end of the process. Ren would hear about it. There’s a good chance Ren is dead by now, come to think of it. Wouldn’t that be nice, to outlive that degraded witch.

Presumably Phasma will be around as well, filthy rich. She’ll remember him, too. Differently, he supposes. 

“I want you to know,” he says, “that I kept my continence with you.”

“What?”

“I didn’t. You know.” He lowers his voice. “I wasn’t sexual with you. You know. I was chaste.”

“That doesn’t matter. I don’t particularly want to know what you did or why you did it. You had no right.” She shrugs. “I’m surprised you didn’t beat me or have me shot, with your tastes.”

“ _ That _ was Ren.  _ I  _ didn’t do that. You told me that yourself.” 

Phasma doesn’t respond.

He tells Phasma there’s a camera in the bunks, that there must be a recording, she should watch and find out. He’s telling her the truth.

“I only wanted to be with you a little while,” he adds. It sounds so pathetic. “I’ve had trouble getting rest.” 

“Please stop explaining yourself. You’re punished. Shut up.” Phasma’s happiness has dissolved into the ether. She’s grim-faced, concentrating on the controls. Displaying just what anyone would expect to be under her mask. She’d only show that strange smile to him.

They know the most of each other, him and her. The most and the worst. 

“Don’t tell anyone what I did, after I’m gone. You can do that for me, right?” he whispers.

She ignores him again. He’s disappointed, even though of course there’s no way he’d know if she kept her promise. His hand hurts terribly.

“Phasma.”

“What.”

“Is there any of that tea left?” It’ll make the time go quicker. He doesn’t particularly want to experience any of it.

She understands him in this, although she does position the chair so that he can’t reach the controls, even with his feet. As if he could somehow fly this damned thing with his toes. He watches as she disappears into the  annex and emerges with his mug, holds it to his lips. It’s foul stuff--Hux doubts she knows how proper infusion works--but it’s hot and there’s a taste to it. 

At least for once he doesn’t have to worry about poisoning. That’s a bit funny.

The cockpit suddenly turns on its side.  _ Oh. It does work fast.  _

It’s not pleasant, not pleasant at all. He hadn’t known.

He can’t open his mouth but at least he can think it.

_ I’m sorry, Phasma. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't read Phasma, Cardinal used to run part of the stormtrooper training program. He found out all about Phasma's wicked past and tried to warn Hux. But HR is not your friend, especially in the First Order.


	9. Chapter 9

“The  _ end _ of the Republic is bound up in its  _ very creation _ \--an end to its chaos, its lies, its last days are upon it as I speak--”

There’s no escape from Hux’s voice. It practically bounces off the walls of the shuttle. He seems to think that what’s left of his future will involve lots and lots of public speaking. He picks out sentences from his public triumphs--the inauguration of Starkiller, the firing of its great weapon--and mixes them with the duller reminders that he liked to record and broadcast throughout the fleet. It makes for a long list of the treachery of the new republic, the disorder, the uncleanliness, the disease. 

Phasma has never even seen Hux’s republic, full of greedy, deviant liars. What she saw during her service was a bunch of planets with shit defenses, abandoned to whoever was the strongest. She was happy to agree with whatever Hux said, as long as he was the one putting the blaster in her hand and making her the strongest. 

Maybe in her new life she’ll have to change her opinion on the Republic. There might be sympathizers out there, or people who have ideas that she doesn’t understand at all.  _ The Republic was good, shame it was blown up like that. Did my best to stop it, really!  _ That probably wouldn’t work as an introduction to these unknown people. Phasma tries, but she can’t even imagine their faces.

“The  _ lies _ of the Republic, the calumny they spread throughout the galaxy--”

If he wasn’t already in poor condition, Phasma would smack Hux silent.

Unfortunately, he is. Maiming Hux had been incredibly satisfying, and she doesn’t exactly regret it, but she had forgotten the simplest lesson from her childhood--bites are as deadly as lichen poison.  _ Getting old.  _ And she had bartered away the last of the bacta patches for her blaster. The remaining medikit supplies aren’t up to the job, and Hux is suffering for it. He’s feverish, and his hand is rotting.

Fortunately, next cycle is the handover. They’re here, landed on the correct planet in the correct spot, ready to meet her contact. It’s a long night in this part of the hemisphere, and Phasma has dimmed the shuttle lights to prevent detection, so it’s night inside as well. It should be calming.

It will all happen soon. So she won’t have to fault herself for poisoning two generations of Huxes, even if one was by mistake.

“Why are you talking so much?” 

When she speaks to Hux, his expression slackens immediately, as if he’s been caught out again. Him being scared of her should be more satisfying than it is. Maybe he thinks she’s stupid enough to bite him again. She hasn’t treated him  _ that  _ badly--she’s tied him up, yes, but he gets a mattress near the cockpit, where she can see him, and she does treat his hand, useless as that may be. She had planned to force the sedative drink down his throat, both to keep him quiet and as a nice bit of revenge, but he woke up screaming the one and only time he had it and besides, they’re running out of the stuff. 

 

Neither of them has really slept since then, actually.

“I’m preparing for my trial.” Hux rubs his hand against his face. Phasma can make out a stain coming through the bandage. 

“Trial, hm?” She unwraps the bandage and examines Hux’s hand. The infection is worsening. The skin is hot and stretched, and red streaks radiate down from the stump of his finger and outward from the half-healed cut on his hand, where an abscess is forming. Perhaps he’d improve if she cut the rest of the finger off at the root, but there isn’t enough time left for it to matter.

“I won’t make a fool out of myself. I’ll tell them what I think of them, the scum.”

The prospect relaxes him for a moment, or unrelaxes him, actually. For a moment he’s the scowling Hux of old, until he slumps over, head resting against his knees.

Phasma rubs the ointment into his hand and replaces the bandage. In a cycle or so, she’ll never see him again. Strange to think that she’s bested him. He’ll be General Armitage Hux to the bitter end. She’ll be a completely new person, reborn into riches. 

She’ll  _ have _ to be a completely new person. She’s hardly thought about that part, about what it will take to give up her own history. She’s recreated herself once, but then there had been an order to work to, new things to learn, a sturdy system of actions and rewards. Now she’ll have to create herself entirely new, with no pattern. Practically, it will mean changing the way she speaks, the way she moves, even training herself to answer to a new name. She’ll have to pick something common, like Ley or Mon or Jyn. Not a lot of humans are roaming the galaxy under her name. 

“Phasma?”

Hux raises his head, holds his good hand out. 

“It’s tomorrow, right?”

Phasma nods. 

“May I shake your hand goodbye, then?”

This is probably a ploy. She’s watched the footage from the bunks. It was sickening, seeing yourself that defenseless, even if Hux hadn’t lied about his precious chastity. She had suspected that he had pinched her or hit her in a way that wouldn’t leave bruises, then did whatever he wanted to do elsewhere. But no, he just lay there, by her side, flinching whenever she moved. As a child, Phasma had slept like that with her brother in her arms, until they were old enough to defend each other. It was a natural thing to do, to come together for protection, but there’s nothing natural about Hux.  

She’s right about the ploy--he keeps at it long past the point of courtesy. His good hand is shaking. Stage fright, possibly, or maybe he’s frightened about dying.

Phasma allows him to finally draw her hand down to his side. They sit together, leaning against the wall. She can feel the tremors running through his body like waves, the shallowness of his breath. 

He’s quiet now, at least. Phasma can hear rain drumming against the top of the shuttle. She has the sudden desire to go out and catch the drops, in case there isn’t any more rain for a while.

Hux breaks the silence, as he always does. 

“Do you remember killing my father?”

Phasma remembers. Hux had spoken to her about poisons, on a theoretical basis, of course. What would be the best way to eliminate someone and leave behind no proof? She had been proud that Hux thought that she was clever, that he had come to her for advice. So she told him about the golden beetle that she kept in a little jar in her quarters, and about how its victims died quickly, painfully, and without trace.

Hux had thought it was genius. He hadn’t had to hold the beetle above Brendol Hux’s beefy neck. He also hadn’t had to spend a sleepless night wondering if Brendol would recognize his own symptoms and issue a denunciation. It hadn’t been the smartest action, looking back on it, killing Brendol Hux in a way that could only lead back to her. 

“That’s when I knew,” Hux breathes, “that you were loyal to me. Just me.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to say--I wanted to thank you for being loyal as long as you were.” 

Phasma wonders if this is another ploy, to play nice, to get her to put off collecting the bounty. Is he that clever?

“I’ll remember you as my ruthless Captain Phasma. How many traitors you killed, how many obstructors. What good we did together. Ah, remember that speech? I felt quite secure, you standing behind me.”

Hux is smiling. Not smirking, just letting the corners of his mouth go up. He doesn’t have a face made for smiling--it’s too thin, or something. It makes him look awkward, weak. He must be sincere, to allow himself to look like that.

“I’ve always been very happy to see you. In or out of the armor.” Armitage widens his smile, like he’s prompting her to laugh at a joke. 

 

Phasma suddenly wonders if she’s being treated to a declaration of love. She’s never had one, because she’s never needed one. It was never anything that needed to be said in her first life, and she was left with very few attachments when she went into the stars.

“I remember meeting you, on that desert planet, how fierce you were, with that little girl. Your niece, correct? I heard that you killed her. Because you wanted to belong to us entirely.”

“The fuck did you hear that?” Phasma yanks her hand away.

Hux cringes. “I think it was Captain Cardinal? Before you killed him for me?”

Whoever had said that about her had lied. She’d rip their fucking head off if she knew who it was. Frey had committed self-destruction during a training activity. Phasma had had a request to speak from cadet UV-8855, but she had turned it down, not wanting to show any signs of favoritism. Afterwards, Phasma read the note that had left behind in her belongings. At the time, she had told herself that Frey had mental derangement, that her past life of being clan pet had spoiled her mind. Now, she thinks that Frey wasn’t insane, that there was something else that was working in the girl’s mind. But perhaps she’s misremembering the words, and anyway it’s not like she can discuss it with Frey now.

She had marked the incident as an accident, to protect herself. To protect Hux, really. These things happened, but it wouldn’t do to let the great Armitage Hux know the truth about his system. 

She should have left then. Earlier, really. She had learned all she had needed to know. If she had, perhaps she would have brought Frey with her. 

What if Frey was with her now? Her brother, her friends, hell, even the nurse from Hux’s sickroom? She would be more active in bed than Hux, that’s for sure. That nurse is probably dead. All of those people are dead because of choices Phasma made. 

It’s too late now to pretend any of them are coming back. 

“Have I angered you?” Armitage  _ will _ talk, no matter what. “Oh, no, Phasma, don’t cry. It was just a rumor, really, Cardinal was envious of anything that walked that wasn’t him. Pompous red idiot.”

Then, of all things, Armitage begins singing to her, a little song about a bird that flies forever and never has to touch the ground. It’s obvious that it’s a kids’ song, that the bird is meant to be a yellow sun. 

_ We all exist together beneath its golden wings, _

_ The sky, the land, the water, and all the living things. _

_ And when it’s dark and dreary, let not fear lead astray, _

_ This bird is flying toward you to bring a bright new day. _

He doesn’t have a bad voice, although it’s clipped, as if he’s singing out one of his speeches. Phasma has to laugh, it’s so ridiculous. To be stuck at the end of a nothing world, in a shuttle, with a chirpy General Genocide for company. And him trying to cheer her up when she’s trying to sell him off. 

“Did your mother sing that to you as a kid?”

“Oh, I didn’t know  _ her _ . I learned it in school. Sang it to myself, really.” 

“You sing well.”

Even in the low light, she sees the blood pool in his face. Or was it already there, from fever? She reaches out, brushes his face with her fingertips. 

_ Burning hot.  _ He’s probably acting this way because he’s half delirious. She should find something for him to get him through the night.

“Don’t leave, Phasma.”

“I’m just getting you something to drink.” On the way back from retrieving a packet of rangrang juice, Phasma has a better idea, and opens the shuttle door.

The clouds must be blocking off any light from moons or stars. All Phasma can tell of this place is the cool wind, and the drops of water flowing over her fingers. It smells pleasant, like the natural version of the scents they would spray around the  _ Finalizer  _ and the  _ Absolution _ . If she could freeze the moment, she’d go out and explore, before any sort of business has to be done. 

Time doesn’t work that way, though. Hux takes the warm juice packet uncomplainingly, and sighs when she puts her hand to his forehead. A drop of rain trickles down his face, and he picks it up with the tip of his tongue, like a little desert cat. 

Phasma had had a kitten herself, when she was very small. She and her brother had taken it off a dead gullycat, and tried to feed it squirts of water and tiny scraps of dried meat. They had had amazing plans to raise it to be the biggest gullycat. It would defend their territory and be their special friend. In reality, it died a few days later, still tiny and weak, too malnourished to even cry. Kel had been hysterical. 

“You need to sleep.” Phasma yawns. She’d like to get some rest herself, shake off this mood. “You’ll be safe. I have no motive to kill you.”

“That’s very nice of you.” If he’s being sarcastic, it doesn’t matter. He’s still closing his eyes, stretching himself out on the mattress, arranging himself into rest. Phasma watches as his breathing slows and the color flows back out of his face, observing his bony ankles, his thin little wrists, his strange orange hair, the wound she’s dealt him. All for the last time.

She runs her finger along his back. The strange smile reappears.

Perhaps it’s meant for her, or perhaps he’s dreaming of something else, like Starkiller.

She shouldn’t even ask the question. She should think about his price, instead.

Phasma traces the numbers of her quote into his back. One, five, a line of zeroes that end all the way at the nape of his neck.

“Oh,  _ arkanima _ ,” Armitage sighs. It’s no language she’s ever heard, but she can translate from the tone.  _ Beloved, sweetheart _ . 

Damn him, making her act the Kalla. She should get some sleep herself, but she’s frightened for some reason that if she leaves for the berth or the bunk, he’ll get away somehow. She’ll sleep in the pilot’s seat.

Only a few more hours, and then she’ll be responsible for absolutely nothing but her own self.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s morning, by the standards of this rainy hell, and Phasma is awake as she ever is these days, and entertaining the people who call themselves her “guests.”

The “guests,” or rather, the bounty contacts, are a sniveling little purple man with a constantly running nose that drips into his goatee, flanked by two gigantic Bothan jellybruisers as backup. Sniveller is working in the interests of a subcontractor for Wyrchi faction, or something along those lines. Phasma doesn’t pay much attention, doesn’t even catch his real name. His drippy voice annoys her, and she wishes he would just hand over the credits so they could be done.

Sniveller has to inspect the bounty first. Phasma looks on as he unties Armitage and pulls him up to sit. She knows it has to be done, but it doesn’t mean that she likes seeing it. She tells herself that farmers are supposed to feel the same way about their animals, but they still end up eating them. 

Armitage is so sick that he hardly wakes for the examination. Sniveller lingers over the bandage wrapped around his hand, and makes a clucking noise. 

“We had a healthier one delivered just last week. This one won’t put up much of a fight.”

“This one?”

“We just had a different one brought in about a red month ago. I think he was the real deal, too. Fought like a tiger. Really cunning.”

Phasma knows that she  _ should _ argue that she has the real person on her hands, but Sniveller seems to want an entirely different concept of than Hux than the physical reality. 

“But you know, Wyrchis don’t have the same concept of time as you and I. Dummies, really, but we can do the same revenge show over and over, as long as we have a supply of reasonable facsimiles.”

“A show?” Phasma’s muscles tense.

“I procure acts for an arena, my dear. We do a good business. A lot of Wyrchis were on Hosnia, you know. They manage to remember these things, at least.”

“What kind of show?”

“Fights to the death! We send out ladies and gentlemen to fight one another. Of course, we don’t let Hux win, he is the villain of this piece, after all.”

Phasma notices Hux stir in his sleep at the sound of his name. 

“What is he going to do? Totter around in the sand?”

“You see my problem?” Sniveller holds out his hands, as if he expects Phasma to pay  _ him _ . “You must understand the drop in the quoted price.”

Phasma thinks that she comprehends Sniveller’s game. She’s been in an arena once herself. It had been a wasteful experience, and she had been with strong warriors, men and women who could aid her in destroying the most brutal opponents. She imagines Armitage, the first phrases of his carefully rehearsed speech on his lips, suddenly thrust into pitched combat. He wouldn’t last a minute. 

Or worse, he would. In a dire situation like that, the best thing to do would be to goad your opponents into killing you quickly, but the one thing that Armitage is trained to do is to raise himself off the ground in front of his audience. 

Sniveller gives her a quote. It’s insanely low, five zeroes less than what she’d been promised.

“What happened to the quote you gave me?”

“Oh, my dear.” Sniveller coughs out a phlegmy chuckle. “That price is a lure. Only rubes actually believe it’s real. Where are you from? Tatooine?”

Phasma has been through various beatings, burnings, and maulings, but she’s never been  _ tricked _ like this. It hurts worse, somehow. It affects her pride. Maybe the people in the Republic were all like Sniveller, to make both Huxes rant about them so often. 

“Don’t be angry, it’ll ruin your pretty face. I’ll give you an extra 100,000 for this wreck.” 

“That’s too fucking low,” Phasma spits. “He’s worth more than that.”

“Take it or leave it. You’re the one who tried to sell me defective merchandise.” Sniveller takes Hux’s hand and squeezes, hard. Armitage’s eyelids fly open and he squeals, and Phasma hears a popping sound, like a water bladder bursting. 

That makes Phasma’s decision for her. 

She draws her blaster and shoots Sniveller in the stomach.

The jellybruisers react immediately. Bothan jellybruisers are basically gigantic walking rocks, lethal in force but slow as hell. They also secrete a lubricating substance to keep them from grinding themselves to death from their own friction. Phasma runs between the pair before they have time to ooze up the floor too badly. 

One of the jellybruisers staggers. Armitage is awake. Not only awake, but he’s even managed to steal Sniveller’s knife and drive it into the back of the jellybruiser’s knee. Armitage looks up at with a grin-- _ look at me, I’m fighting! _ \--and the jellybruiser promptly sweeps him aside. It uses too much force for Armitage’s weight, and slips in its own jelly, landing with a thud that shakes the ship’s metal. 

_ Size up the other fighter. Where’s the weakness _ ? On top, Phasma realizes, where the jellybruiser’s stubby, grinding arms can’t reach. It’s impossible to get a purchase on the jellybruiser’s back, like climbing a slimy cliff. Impossible for anyone besides a woman from Parnassos, that is. She used to do this all the time, to stand watch, to steal eggs. The trick is to push yourself against the cliff, no matter how much bird shit and searot is smeared across its face. Back then the cliff didn’t push back, but ten years of advanced sim work have to be good for something extra.

The jellybruiser is a poor fighter. Instead of simply leaning against the wall and trapping her there until she passes out, it shows off, slamming her against the wall. It hurts like fuck, but it gives her time to prepare and ascend. She manages to clamber onto the jellybruiser’s craggy shoulders. All it can do is flail uselessly as she finds the joint between its protective slabs of covering, between the head and shoulder. The shifting slabs reveal the jellybruiser’s secret--what looks like a tube made out of meat, puckering and releasing gobs of bright pink goo as the bruiser’s arms swing back and forth. Jams her blaster into the sphincter and fires again and again, until the jelly boils over onto her hands and the jellybruiser collapses under her.

The other jellybruiser is still on the floor, floundering like a turtle flipped onto its shell. As it struggles, it reveals more of the secret glands. Phasma leans over, picks one, and repeats the process.

Phasma slides over and crouches by the door, in case Sniveller has any more minions that want to avenge their master. Nothing shows up, and Phasma can see a white beacon pulsing through the pouring rain. Sniveller was stupid enough to leave his door unlocked. 

She turns to examine the remains of her possessions. One extremely slimy ship. Two dead jellybruisers. Sniveller is unconscious but still rasping away, so she gives him a mercy shot, although it’s more to shut him up than because she feels particularly merciful.

Armitage Is lying against the wall, covered in red muck. He’s not moving. Phasma turns his face up, suddenly afraid that the jellybruiser’s blow stopped his heart, or that he breathed in the jelly and suffocated or poisoned himself. The stuff isn’t supposed to be toxic, but that’s if you’re healthy and strong.

His eyes open, and his legs and arms scrabble against the floor. His nerves aren’t compromised, then. Phasma props him up in a sitting position.

“Is that you?” Hux croaks. “Don’t go.”

_ He’s talking, so he must be all right enough. _

Phasma makes her way out of the ship as quick as possible without slipping. She pauses outside the door of Sniveller’s ship, to let the rain wash her off.

_ Don’t make any decisions just yet. _

Apart from the patches of slime in the jellybruisers’ quarters, Sniveller’s ship turns out to be luxurious. He spared himself nothing--there’s a little bar full of exotic liquors, a cushy bed with a garish shimmersilk cover and pillows, a full sonic suite. Best of all, Sniveller has left his stash of credits behind. He has enough to cover three times what he offered her, and there’s probably more to find with a little slicing. 

It’s silly as hell, but Phasma can’t resist spitting on the picture of himself he’s had painted on top of his lockbox.  _ Cheap asshole. That’s for what you thought of me. _

Phasma also comes across a well-stocked medikit. There’s a bunch of virility pills for whatever kind of creature Sniveller was, judging by the illustrations on the bottles, but underneath those are real bacta patches and mix, and painkiller spray, and a lot of other useful things. 

Phasma almost wishes she hadn’t found it.

Now that she knows that he isn’t worth very much, the smart thing to do is to execute Armitage, just as she executed Sniveller. There are several good arguments for it. Hux is emotionally unreliable, to say the least. Practically, he’s an average pilot, and she’s uncertain whether he’s still a mechanically skilled practical engineer. He  _ was _ a crack shot, but now he’ll have to learn to shoot with his weaker hand. She should have been sensible and just given him a beating as punishment, not taken off his finger.

He did stab that jellybruiser, though. Had their positions been reversed, Phasma would have stabbed him in the back in vengeance, no hesitation. He’s slightly less sadistic than she had thought, at least to her. He can be sympathetic, even, in a rudimentary way.

It’s not much.

_ You could just leave him behind. _

That would nag at her, though. Leaving him to die, dirty, sick, and alone. 

Siv would disapprove of that. Phasma remembers back on Parnassos, how careful Siv always was to do last rites on anyone who was straggling in the living world. They never talked much, but Phasma knew they were fast friends, until Brendol told her to choose and she had left Siv behind. 

She had always gone from one person to another. Keldo to Siv to Brendol and now to Armitage.  _ You were never really the lone creature you thought you were. _

Phasma opens the door to the Order ship and makes her way back to stand over Armitage. He’s fallen back unconscious. She places her hand on her holster.

A bit of leftover jelly tickles Phasma’s nose, and she sneezes.

Armitage reaches to his side. He thinks he still has his greatcoat on, Phasma realizes. There’s was a pocket on that side where he kept a piece of fabric to wipe his nose. He probably had a vial of poison in there, too, but the fabric is the thing she knows about. 

_ Oh, for Kalla’s sake. _

“Come on.” She scoops Hux up and slings his arm around her shoulder. Halfway to her ship he collapses and she has to carry him the rest of the way, maneuvering him through the door. It isn’t hard to do; he weighs as much as a heavy bird.

Phasma forces him into the sonic suite and cleans him off. He’s oddly made, underneath his clothes. Those Wyrchis would have been disappointed to see him running around, all sloped shoulders and tiny tits.

She lays him out under the shimmersilk, wraps a patch around his hand, and forces a pill down his throat with the mixer that Sniveller kept in his bar. Then she returns to the controls and-- _ finally-- _ makes a jump.

A few hours later, Armitage appears in the doorway to the cockpit. He’s wrapped the blanket around himself, like a shiny towel, and looks vastly improved. His face is its normal pasty color, and his eyes are clear.

“I suppose the deal went wrong, then.”

“You suppose right.”

“Another rendezvous planned?”

“No.” 

“Really?”

“Your price is too low.” Armitage wrinkles his nose, just as she’d anticipated. “We’re worth a lot more together as a team. You killed a jellybruiser back there.” Not technically true, but he does deserve that praise.

“So you mean for us to go on together?” Hux slips into the copilot’s chair, careful to keep the blanket decently arranged. 

“If you’re willing to work as an equal, yes.” She’s not about to officially give him orders. She suspects that he’d scheme against her out of habit. “If not, I can drop you off at the next available port. I don’t need bounty money now.”

Armitage gives a half smile. “I’m happy to stay here with you, for the time being. Make myself useful.”

Phasma reaches out and takes his hand, just to see how he’s doing, and notices that he’s managed to neatly clip all four fingernails. She knew he’d do something like that, just as she knew how Kel would curse when his leg pained him, or Frey would cry when she was left alone for too long, or how Siv would hum to herself after blessing a body.

Perhaps she’ll go back to Parnassos one day, and mark where Siv fell.

Phasma is awakened from her thoughts by the brush of lips against the back of her hand. Hux looks back at her with alarm in his pale eyes.

“I’m sorry, if I went too far with that--I don’t want to offend, I just wanted--”

Phasma cuts him off. “No, it’s fine.”

He doesn’t let go of her. Poor Hux. He needs some sort of routine, to be close to something familiar now. For better or worse, she’s that way, too.

_ Poor me _ , Phasma thinks.  _ More like Kalla than I thought. Ending up with some useless man. _

It doesn’t feel too bad, actually. Armitage isn’t completely useless, and it’s not like she has to restart the galactic population with him. Besides, it’s better than the alternative, being cut off from everything, living in a vacuum. 

Kalla must have known that. Perhaps that had been the real moral of the story, long ago--that you can’t take back the choices you made, but there’s always something better than nothing. 

Phasma puts her free hand on the joystick and prepares to jump--into the real Outer Rim, perhaps beyond the galaxy. She can do it, and she won’t have to do it alone.

“Let’s see what’s on Bisb.”

Armitage’s hand tightens around hers.

Phasma has  _ always _ been able to work with what she has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww look those space Nazi kids made it after all. How sweet! (Secret ending: Poe catches them and brings them to justice...)
> 
> If you've made it all this way, thanks for reading! Writing an alternate ending to another fic, involving a weird platonic pairing, is an interesting way to pass a summer. I just couldn't stop writing Phasma, she deserved a better end than constantly falling down various holes in the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcome--i appreciate feedback!


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